misspelled
by thejollypirate
Summary: Killian Jones is a busy man who likes his caffeine, but the pretty blonde tends to spell his name wrong. A lot. On purpose.


It's not _his_ fault that he has a constantly busy job as a businessman who has to deal with multiple phone calls a day. And not to mention the fact that all of these phone calls are usually early in the morning - precisely a reason he despises being his own _business owner_ , instead of a mere employee. But when business calls, it _calls_.

He's usually not that bad of a person, at least, that's what he thinks he is. In fact, he believes he is a decent gentleman who does everything he possibly can to reach his own standards and to be capable of pleasing himself - to feel satisfaction.

And it's particularly difficult to get to work early with a clear mind after a rather heated phone call when the barista who spells his name wrong _every day_ and _every time_ he orders a drink does so again. The first time he only thought of it as a mistake and the second, he just simply decided to ignore it... but it starts to get rather frustrating every time he takes his drink to notice the misunderstanding of how to spell "Killian."

"No, Mr. Smee, that is _not_ what we have sent orders in for," he complains, nodding at the barista (no mention to the beautiful blonde with a raised brow, definitely _not_ ) who just knows his normal by now. "Perhaps if you cannot complete such a simple task, I'll have your bloody behind out of _my_ company so you can rattle your way to find another occupation instead of dragging down this one."

"Y - Yes, sir," is the response from his employee.

Sighing, he waits to the side. "Now, I'll be at the office in about fifteen minutes and I expect all matters to be dealt with by my arrival, and if not, hopefully in the process. These shipments are important, Mr. Smee."

Just as he shoves his phone into the back pocket of his pants, she sets the drink in front of him, startling him slightly. "Your drink, _sir_."

"Many thanks, lass," he says, wrapping his fingers around the to-go cup.

Just as he's about to go, when he reads the name written on his cup as "Kill-yen," he curses quietly under his breath before reminding himself to keep his eyes averted from the misspelled name.

By the time he opens the doors to his office, in his own utter rage and despise of the woman who always tends to his order -

(It's not like he's never noticed her name tag which has " _Emma_ " scribbled over it in black sharpie, or the fact her eyes are a brilliant shade of green in the morning when they sparkle with a glow like he's never seen before. He'd be lying if he does say he never notices her stunning beauty, even with the ridiculous uniform on.)

\- he chucks it into the garbage can before trying to move on through his day.

He's never drained a drink so fast in his life.

.~.

Saturday morning, he strolls into the same coffee shop ordering his usual. Except this time, he's _going_ to ask her why the bloody hell she always spells his name wrong. He knows it's on purpose.

The first time was "Killy," the second was "Killean," and the third, which was undoubtedly yesterday morning, "Killi-yen."

No woman has ever infuriated him so much before, let alone also make him feel so _attracted_ simultaneously. If he's going to have any say in this, the least he can do it ask and perhaps fix up what he's done to create such an impression or grudge. Why has he been bestowed with the same barista on the same days he goes in the morning? That - well, it's not something he'll probably find an answer to anytime soon. Not that he's complaining.

"The usual, Mr. Jones?" she asks, her tone slightly lifted with a playful desire. "Why do I ask? You order the same thing every other morning, _of course_ your order is coming right up."

He opens his mouth to protest in questioning but she's departed to go gather his drink before he has the chance to say anything. Closing his eyes and heaving a deep breath, he glances down at the watch on his wrist. It's only 10:43AM, why does he even bother with this woman?

Because she's bloody infuriating and stubborn and _intriguing_ all the same.

It's a good three minutes before she's back, sliding the cup to him. "Here it is."

Glancing behind him, it's surprisingly empty for a weekend, so he decides it's time for him to ask now. "Ah, now, I'd usually provide my thanks to you - as per usual - but today I have a question that needs an answer." He spins the cup just to see the bit of his name completely written incorrectly.

She crosses her eyes, attitude flaring up almost instantaneously. "And you think _I_ can answer it?"

"Of course, _Emma_ , you are the one who deals with my order every time I'm in here." He shrugs, leaning his elbow on the counter. "Perhaps you can explain to me why you constantly decide to misspell my name on the drink every time."

He nearly unconsciously rolls his eyes when he remembers it's spelled as "KiLlIIIIYAN" this time around.

"I don't know what you mean," she dismisses, cocking her head to the side casually. "I mean, cut me some slack. You've never complained before so I figured there was no point in changing how I dealt with your name anyways."

"Love, it'd heal my linguistic passion if you'd for once - I beg of you - spell it _correctly_."

"Hm?" she hums. "I think not."

"Bloody hell, what have I done to deserve this?" he mutters, running his hand over his face before staring down at the cup of his usual venti macchiato.

"Oh, I don't know, maybe the fact that you walk in here every morning with a scowl and that god damn phone to your ear, venting about whatever while I'm here trying to do my job?" She huffs a breath before continuing on. "Like clearly I'm trying to do my part, but with you yelling... _talking_ loudly... at whoever is on the end of that phone is really annoying."

For the slightest moment, he thinks back to the times he's walked into this coffee shop in the way that she's described -

Oh.

 _Oh_.

He feels apologetic, like he needs to apologize a hundred times over at the way he's acted in the past week. It's been stressful every single day, but he's been so ignorant about the surrounding world and people around him, he's been consistently annoying her. And it's all been on his own accord, his own actions, his own words. Pinching the bridge of his nose to stop the rush of thoughts - well attempt to at least - he extends his hand out and sighs.

"Sorry," he starts, "hadn't paid attention enough to realize that you've been only the utmost pleasure at being the barista and all I've done is been unattentive and cause a ruckus." His hand falls down before it goes behind his ear, scratching it gently. "Being the owner of your own sailing business and having a incompetent, however, reliable employee, is somewhat of a struggle to get through. Including the fact tourism season is nearing."

She practically eyes him, searching him for _something_ \- maybe lies, some trace of the false truth - but when she drops her arms that have been crossed over her chest to the side, she shakes her head. "You own a sailing business?"

"Neverland Sailing Incorporated, darling," he drawls, jerking his head languidly to the side.

"You own the _biggest_ sailing company in all of Maine," she mutters, blinking rapidly. "You're kidding me."

"I assure you I'm not," he says, picking up his drink with the very misspelled name on it and taking a sip. "Perhaps I can offer you a free ride to compensate for my rather... non-courteous behaviour. I can promise you no Killian Jones complaining about anything over the phone on your little trip - peace, quiet and the gentle rocking of the ship is all you'll have to experience."

She laughs softly.

He wants to hear that more.

(He's going _mad_ already.)

"Maybe," she vaguely responds, "one day."

"Then I look forward to that one day, as you so suggestively put it." He grins, raising his cup at her. "Until next time, love." Turning his back, he starts to walk toward the door. When he turns his head once more to catch a glance of her blonde hair and green eyes, she's staring directly at him.

What has he just done to himself?

.~.

He can't help but feel a bit down the next time he goes to the coffee shop for his regular and Emma isn't there. It's that other girl who has a wolfish grin, though very kind and enthusiastic. He knows of her - Ruby - since her grandmother owns the shop. Plus, she's a friend who does some rare dropoffs for food.

"Your drink has been paid for already, Killian," she tells him, reaching over and handing him the cup. "I assure you it is _not_ drugged."

His tongue glides in between his teeth as he takes the cup from her hands somewhat hesitantly. "Thank you, lass. Tell whoever it is that I owe them."

She smiles. It's mischevious of the sorts. "Of course."

Turning on his heels and leaving, he glances back down at the cup, tilting it slightly to notice the name that has _finally_ been spelt correctly. He wonders if it was Ruby's work, but he's familiar with Ruby's writing and it's definitely not hers. Then, he makes out the connected words to realize it was _her_.

Smiling as he takes small sips from his drinks, he doesn't completely down it this time around. He's in no hurry to get to work, nor is he in an angry mood. Glancing around town, he sighs contently before climbing into his black BMW, setting the cup aside before driving his way to the docks.

.~.

After three more weeks of ridiculous spelt names and rampages of unending banter between them, he finally, _accidentally_ , asks her out on a date on a whim.

"What?"

"You heard me, Swan," he retorts confidently. "Go on a date with me. As much as you are a pain in the arse with spelling my name wrong all the time, save for that one time you weren't here and had Ruby handle the pre-bought drink you bestowed me with, I think it's hardly in your favour to deny."

Her eyebrows shoot up before they drop back down, a look of consideration growing on her face. "I hardly know you."

"Yes, your most _frequent_ customer who manages to talk and joke with you is a stranger," he says, sarcasm dripping from his tone. "If you'd love to consider me that, then let us get to know each other to eliminate the "stranger" stage."

"Are you going to ask me again if I decline now?"

"Is that even a _question_ , sweetheart?"

"No, I suppose not."

"So what do you say?" he asks. "Take a chance on the well known Killian Jones, millionaire playboy who owns a large sailing company."

"You're none of those things."

"Millionaire? Yes. Owner of a large sailing company? Yes." He takes a deep breath, building the suspense. "Playboy? Well... no, of course not, but you get my point. I'd hardly peg you to consider my offer if I was a playboy - I've got a reputation to keep up, Swan."

He doesn't even talk on the phone anymore when he saunters into the coffee shop asking for his usual, yet she still treats him the same as before. Besides the small bit of friendship they've developed over the past month.

"Fine," she groans, squeezing her eyes shut.

Smirking, he sets his five dollar bill on the counter. "Take the change, and of course, meet me at the docks at seven, _tonight_. I'm one for punctuality, love - best you should know that."

.~.

He kisses her -

What is he doing?

He's on a date with her of course, but he's _kissing_ her and she tastes of sweet hot chocolate and a whiff of cinnamon somewhere around there too. He can't get enough, he needs to taste her more and more and _more_.

And god, this is raw and sweet and passionate, he's got it for her _bad_.

.~.

"And," she starts, handing him his cup, "there you go."

"You..." he mutters, noticing that his name isn't even on the cup, "did not put my name on the cup."

She shrugs lazily. "Woops. I must've _forgotten_."

Pursing his lips, he rolls his eyes before his lips curl into a smile. "Perhaps next time."

"Next time."

And it sounds like a promise.


End file.
